Twenty Something

It started with the Italians, whose arias rose from the balconies. They were on lockdown, but their voices rang out down empty moonlit streets. Ballads, the national anthem, improvised ditties over the barking of dogs.

Stephanie Weinert’s Instagram followers have come to expect unfiltered captions to go with her pretty pictures. That’s why she has amassed 7,000 followers, who click on images of her five young children and, in doing so, access her tips on skincare, home decor and liturgical living.

There comes a moment when something clicks. At a book club or a Bible study. In a carpool circle or a coffee shop. A connection is made, and a gathering turns into a group, taking on a life of its own.

It’s become a four-generation tradition to head south of the Twin Cities and take in a small-town celebration of fall. Our route winds between soaring bluffs and a shimmering lake. It feels like a narrow passageway, a tunnel back in time.

I was a sophomore in college when I received the little blue book, a gift from a friend who also wanted to be a writer. At the time I was editing the student newspaper, poring over buried leads and dangling modifiers.

Business was good. So good, in fact, that the family company had become one of the largest breweries in New England, producing 300,000 barrels a year and supporting two generations of Geisels in Springfield, Massachusetts.

We live in an unfortunate era for online criticism. Critics fling insults they would never dare utter face to face. Defendants — typically privileged public figures — bristle with self-righteousness, dubbing their critics “haters,” earning praise for “clapping back” in their own defense.